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Like how she loves to argue, and it’s almost a part of foreplay. Her need for rough handling and rougher sex. The way she falls apart when I take it slow. The way she came when I cuffed her.
And the way my cat can be furious and have a conversation. I think I’d rather fight and talk and poke about abstract constructs of love and crime, good and bad, with her than anyone.
Fuck, discussing the weather with her would hold a level of intrigue and excitement that comes from her.
She’s soft. She’s hard. She’s got a sweetness. She’s pure acid. She’s smart as fuck and independent.
But girl who wants saving?
No. That’s not her.
I’m not sure Jac’s ever been rejected before. Or if this is an actual rejection.
Because she wants him. As much as she wants him to go away.
I fucking hate that she wants him.
Hunger and anger and frustration war on Jac’s face. “Don’t you look all fucked? Or ready to fuck? What’s your problem, anyway? Answer a fucking call, MG. You’re not all that.”
The fucker needs to shut his ugly mouth. Now.
“And yet,” she says, “you’re here. Got a problem, Jac?”
“His name’s fucking Hendrick. You’re adding to it. What’s up with you returning my money? You’re a fucking pain in my ass.”
“Then go away,” she says.
“Not until I get my share.” The bastard grins at her, a sleazy, cocky grin.
Maybe this constitutes dire circumstances, and I can circumvent that Quinate law.
“I don’t have time for your moody bullshit right now,” she says.
“You know, I might have come by to apologize.” He points a ringed finger at her. “Ever think you’re the fucking problem, MG?”
My hands clench. The bedroom’s dark so he can’t see me, but the whiskey bottle’s in the kitchen, along with the mezcal. Even if he goes in there, I highly doubt it’ll register.
Jac isn’t stupid, far from it. And I don’t underestimate him when he gets out of his own fucking way. He can be smooth, tricky and utterly deadly. But he prefers the bombast approach. Flash and bang. Smoke and drum rolls.
Jac thinks he’s so fucking it, he doesn’t bother with subtlety
Maybe some of it is losing Lili, the only person I think he’s ever loved. Or maybe the only person he cared for who loved him back. I don’t pretend to have the ins and outs of Jac’s life, but I think he loved his father once. Before he beat it out of him, before the man lifted a hand to Lili.
Jac, under all the smug, hot hate and hedonistic life, the center of the universe, isn’t happy.
But I’m not his psychotherapist. I don’t like the fuck. On bad days I hate him, good days just can’t stand him, and when I say I want him dead it’s just that: talk, a vague esoteric want.
I’m not idiot enough to think that when Jac says he wants me dead he means anything other than that. If Jac could have his fucking way, he’d destroy and take and then kill me.
And Cat? Shit, he’s here probably to apologize but he can’t help being a nasty, demeaning piece of work.
Toward her.
The fury whips and writhes.
“Nice apology, Jac,” my cat says, and I hear the thick want in her voice, in there under the anger and frustration and dislike. I can also hear the longing.
I know because I hear it in her voice when we look at each other and talk, when she’s thinking of my cock, when she’s just come and wants more.
